


Cigarettes & Smoke (1)

by Keithan



Series: Cigarettes & Smoke [1]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Gap Filler, Gen, Sanq, ZERO System
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keithan/pseuds/Keithan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He watches the smoke disappear into nothingness. (Set during the series in Sanq after the ZERO system incident)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cigarettes & Smoke (1)

  
**1.**  
He watches the smoke go up, with its tendrils reaching out to the glass pane of the window, before raising his hand to wave it away. It disperses in front of him, the white puff of cloud thinning out before completely disappearing—only to be replaced again as he blows out smoke, a soft whisper of air past his lips. He doesn’t move for a moment, eyes once more following the white curls rising up, but then he waves a hand at it again. And as fleeting and as intangible as it is, it is gone the next second, some slipping out of the half-opened window.  
He hears the door open, and his eyes immediately change focus from the view outside, and the now invisible smoke, to the reflective glass. He sees Heero looking at him, and the frown on the other pilot’s face is the most distinguished expression he thinks he has ever seen on Heero’s features.  
“Heero.” He turns around and leans back. The cigarette he’s holding dangles precariously between his fingers as his hands come to rest on the sill behind him. “You’re back.”  
Heero doesn’t move, only inclines his head, carefully, slowly, eyes shifting down to his hand—to the cigarette—for a quick glance, as if making sure. “Where did you get that?”  
He raises a brow, raises his right hand up, and looks at the cigarette as though he didn’t even notice it was there. “Oh this,” he says, and lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “Some of the girls managed to sneak in some. I confiscated the whole box, of course.” He smiles, gentle and sweet, but he sees Heero’s frown deepen more.  
“Quatre—“  
“Don’t worry.” He waves a hand, the right hand with the cigarette—the smoke curls, the smile drops. His grace with the white stick surprises even himself. “I just tried it.” He turns his back to Heero, going back to the view outside—of the night sky, of the distant stars, of invisible smoke.  
He hears Heero’s footsteps, sees in the reflection that the other pilot is walking to him. Their eyes meet, a reflection looking at another reflection.  
“It’s cold here,” he says, when he feels a gust of cold wind enter from the window. “All the time. So unlike the desert during the day.” He reaches out to close the window, but he remembers the smoke and lets his hand drop back to his side.  
“It’s been weeks.” Heero stops just behind him, close enough for the other to see the sudden falter in his fingers, unaccustomed to holding a cigarette in between, but graceful enough to be able to adapt.  
“Are you planning to leave already?” He steadies his hand and looks at the cravat at Heero’s neck, already a bit loosened but still presentable. “It’s okay. I’m glad you stayed, even for a little while.”  
He sees Heero’s forehead crease once more, slight but noticeable. “That’s not what I meant.”  
“I know.” He smiles again, this time, faint and weak, a mere curving of the corners of his lips. “Is he alive, I wonder.” And he lifts the cigarette to his lips, inhaling in deep—smoke and guilt and regret. He doesn’t cough, doesn’t spit out the unusual taste.  
He looks at the cigarette between his fingers, the whiteness not far from his pale skin. It would have contrasted with his sun-burnt hands not too long ago though, when he was in the browns and golds and tans of the desert—his first sun burn and the desert has claimed his heart since.  
He exhales the smoke out, watches as it obscures his hand—white smoke and pale skin. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to it.”  
A hand encircles his wrist, and he sees the contrast he is looking for there. Against his skin, Heero’s skin is darker. Bronze, he would call it, and he thinks that bronze is not far from the tans and golds and browns of the desert. He turns, looking up, and meets blue then—he thinks not of the sky, but rather the sea, the deep, deep blue sea.  
“Don’t.” Heero says as the other pulls his wrist—pulls him closer—and he takes a step forward.  
He watches as Heero, without letting go of his wrist, reaches for the cigarette with his other hand, removes it from between his fingers and settles it between his own lips, inhaling in deep—and he wonders if Heero inhales the same smoke, the same guilt, the same regret.  
Heero then looks away, looks down at the table by the window and sees the made-up ash tray there. He follows Heero’s movements as the other pilot, with a twist of his wrist, lets the ash fall away, before flicking his fingers to send the cigarette sailing past the glass pane and out the open space of the window. He thinks of Heero’s grace with it—thinks if the perfect soldier has ever smoked before—as he follows the point of orange glow and watches it as it fades away into the darkness, until it’s not there anymore—invisible, like the smoke that Heero has blown past his lips, with his head turned away, will become.  
He looks back at Heero—and swims in the deep, deep blue sea—and sees the remnants of smoke thinning out in the space between them. He tilts his head, studying the other’s face. “Don’t what, Heero?”  
He wonders if Heero meant the smoke, or the guilt, or the regret, or perhaps he meant it all. He wonders if it even matters, as Heero pulls his wrist again—pulls him closer—and he takes another step forward, into the circle of bronze and the warmth of the desert. He closes his eyes, and the smoke—the invisible smoke—fades away.  
**18.07.09**  
 


End file.
